


Three Days

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John and Sherlock try to cope with the loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely [azriona](http://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/).

John left Baker Street after S- after _he_ died.  (He could barely stand to think his name, let alone say it.) He couldn’t face returning to the flat after the funeral; there was just too much of _him_ in those rooms. He wanted to run away from the world, from the memories of happy times now shrouded in grey. He had briefly considered going to Harry’s, or crashing at Mike’s, but he had no desire to be around people right now. In spite of his friends’ best attempts to console him, he knew that they didn’t understand, and could never understand, how much _he_  had meant to John; the outpouring of sympathy only served to grate on the fresh wound he carried within.  

And so it was that, after a stop-off at the off-license for a bottle of Jameson’s, John ended up back at the same hotel he’d stayed at before he had moved to Baker Street, and in a cruel coincidence was given the very same room he’d had back then.  In that featureless room, he tried to drink the pain away (and loathed himself for it, particularly in light of how he felt about Harry’s drinking). When he did finally pass out, the nightmare of _his_ death replayed in John’s mind in excruciating detail – every word of their final conversation, every agonizing second of the fall. And John would wake up screaming _his_ name, praying it was just a dream; but then reality would set in and he’d drink again, trying to stave off the pain that threatened to crush him. 

On the third day of his self-imposed exile, when the bottle of Jameson’s was empty and discarded on the floor, and he was finally sober enough to function, John checked out of the hotel, with no idea of what to do next.  He spent twelve hours wandering London's maze of streets in a near-constant drizzle, until he finally gave up trying to run from the ghost that haunted him. It was dark when he turned down Baker Street, coming to a stop in front of the familiar black door with the worn brass hardware, and fitting his key into the lock. He opened the door as quietly as he could, doing his best not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, and silently prayed that she would not come out. John knew that her grief was nearly as bad as his, but he couldn’t handle trying to comfort someone else right now.  He just wanted to be left alone. Well, that wasn't strictly true - what he really wanted, he could not put to words or he might lose his resolve altogether.  

John shut the door behind him and stood in the foyer, looking up the stairs, shivering in his damp clothes. At first he couldn’t move; it was as if he was rooted to the spot, and he fought a fresh wave of grief that threatened to reduce him to a crumpled pile on the floor. After several moments a heavy, shuddering sigh escaped his lips, and he peeled off his coat as he trudged up the stairs to their flat. 

His flat. There was no "their" anymore. 

John opened the door and stepped inside, feeling the wall for a light switch. He pressed it and the room was softly illuminated by a table lamp. The clutter and wildly patterned wallpaper were an oddly comforting sight after three days of taupe walls and white linens. As he walked across their - his - living room, his fingertips trailed over piles of _his_ books... _his_ laptop... _his_ violin... before coming to rest on _his_ chair. John stood there for the longest time, before sitting down. Draped over the back of the chair was the blue dressing gown. John turned and took the thin material into his hands, catching a whiff of _him_ \- a peculiar mixture of _his_ soap, cigarette smoke, and a scent that was uniquely _him_ \- and the familiar tightness crept back into his throat. John could feel the tears forming in his eyes, the burning forcing him to blink and send them rolling down his cheeks. He brought the gown to his face as great sobs wracked his body, and a howl escaped from the very center of him, from his heart which had shattered like _his_ body on the pavement. 

_My best friend.... Sherlock Holmes... is dead._  

***** 

Sherlock sat on a creaky stained mattress in a tenement flat in Berlin, chain-smoking. The ashtray next to him on the bed was filled with a pack's worth of cigarette butts. Grinding another one into the ashtray, he immediately shook a new cigarette out of the soft pack and lit it, inhaling deeply of the smoke. He ran a hand over his head. His dark curly locks had been shorn, and the close-cropped hair was now a shade resembling burnt sienna. Three days' growth of reddish-brown beard covered his face, and brown contacts obscured the glassy blue of his eyes. Tomorrow it would begin - the reclaiming of his life, the clearing of his name, and the long road back to John. Tonight, though, he was alone with his thoughts, and that was a dangerous place to be. 

Truth be told, right now he hated himself. 

The hard part hadn't been faking his death - like all magic tricks, all it took was a willing assistant and a bit of sleight-of-hand. The hard part had been lying to John, even though it was done to protect him. Sherlock rarely cried; in fact, he could not remember the last time he had, but the tears that he shed on that terrible day were real. The act of betraying John, the one person out of seven billion on the planet in whom he placed unconditional trust, and the only person he couldn't live without - broke his heart. As further punishment he had forced himself to stand in the shadows near his grave, and listen to John pour out his own heart, listen to John plead for one more miracle, just for him, and it took every bit of his will to keep from running over and embracing him. It was a risk being out in public, undisguised, so soon after his alleged demise, but he had to see John one last time before he left the country to hunt down and eliminate Moriarty's network. 

Tomorrow would bring Sherlock one day closer to home, one day closer to returning to John. He only hoped that John didn't hate him when (not if) he did return, that he could find the words to explain why he did it, that was all to protect the one person who mattered most to him in all the world, the only person he had ever dared to let into his soul.  

_John…_

The name was like a prayer; his touchstone, his reason for being.  Sherlock took a long drag on his cigarette, and as he exhaled, he felt his chest cave in and the tears brimming in his eyes. He leaned back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead against them, releasing his pain in silent sobs. 


End file.
